Ocean Blues
by Melira
Summary: He could still hear the old woman's words in his head. "My mother said it sent a message to your people who had passed over." He didn't believe in them. How could he? But somehow, he finds himself at the beach nonetheless, a small white flower in hand. Last scene of 04x05 "Blood and Sand" from Patrick Jane's POV. One-shot.


_Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist.  
Clarification: This refers to the last scene of 04x05 "Blood and Sand", when Jane's at the beach, throwing the flower into the ocean._

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The little white flower slowly drifted away from the shore, carried by the endlessness of the sea. Small waves lifted it up and sat it down again, but never managed to drown it. The tiny beauty always stayed on top. It refused to go under, almost mockingly forcing the water to keep it up, to keep carrying it to wherever destiny meant for it to be.

It could have been terrifying, seeing the small plant drifting at the mercy of a force strong enough to bend metal and stone to its will. But it wasn't. Quite the opposite even. It was giving him hope, in an illogical, probably stupid way.

He could still hear the woman's words in his head. "My mother said it sent a message to your people who had passed over." He didn't believe in an afterlife, never had. But the explanation had struck a chord with him, had touched him in an unexpected way. His phone had gone off and she had left, but her last comment had edged itself into his mind. "I feel better. I feel like I did something to give that girl some peace."

She had described what he was looking for, had been for more than seven years now. To feel better, to ease the guilt. And to bring peace to the ones he had loved and lost.

Her words had echoed in his head as if she had screamed them at him rather than speaking in a low, almost melancholy tone. He had tried to forget them. He didn't believe in them! But he couldn't. And so he had found himself wandering off as he did so often, and towards the ocean. He didn't care if the others were looking for him, never did, and even less so if he missed the ferry. It seemed so unimportant.

On his way down to the beach he had picked a flower, just a single one. Tiny, delicate, unobtrusive. And white. Pure. He had seen it growing between others at the side of the road and it had caught his eye. It had just been standing there, small and easy to overlook but his gaze had found it anyways. He had picked it, carefully, and taken it with him to the shore, where the ocean hit the sand in a never ending game of tug of war.

The sky was of a stormy grey and the sea was slightly churning. But that was fine with him. Sun and a blue sky would have felt so wrong. He liked contrasts, was a man of extremes himself, but this one would just have been too macabre. Like this, it wasn't perfect. Nothing ever was. And as much as he appreciated the usually so friendly Californian weather, right now he was glad clouds guarded the earth from the bright light.

He kept his eyes on the white spot dancing on the dark water between the huge stones. It gently rooked up and down, left and right, and he felt his thoughts going with it, drifting away from the beach. Drifting towards the end of the world and beyond. To his wife and daughter.

He didn't believe they could see him or that he could communicate with them. To him the term "passed on" sounded all wrong. If someone passed you, you were still able to reach him. But you couldn't reach the dead, they were gone forever, there was no coming back. And no following. There was just staying behind without them. Alone. Drifting through what remained of your life like the flower on the water. There was just trying not to drown and not to get lost. And maybe, if you were lucky, someday finding land again. Solid land to plant your feet on and get up again.

He hadn't managed that yet. Not completely. He was close to the shore, the closest he had been since he being thrown into the water, but his feet barely touched the ground. Every now and then they brushed it and for a short moment he thought he had finally managed to stand in the water rather then paddle. He had been sure of it when he had shot the man he had believed was Red John. But he had lost footing again the second he had been told the man had neither carried a weapon nor received a call. Now, he could still see the coast but was unable to reach it. Just like the flower.

But the flower stayed up, kept swimming, and he knew eventually a wave would carry it back to the beach. It may would be a bit ruffled, but it would be on dry land again. And so would he. Eventually.

He turned around, away from the sea, and knew that someday, he would stand again.

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 _A/N: Nothing much to say other than "I hope you enjoyed reading." Only that I was wrong when I stated I probably wouldn't write from Jane's POV again. I obviously did... ;-) Not very consistent, this one!_


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